


Absolution

by Welfycat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Big Bang Challenge, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Gen, POV Sheriff Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welfycat/pseuds/Welfycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It'd been six months since Matt Daehler attacked the Sheriff's Department. Six months since the series of murders finally ended. Six months and Sheriff Stilinski had finally started to come to peace with it all, until he overheard a conversation that brought a new question and a series of answers he wasn't prepared to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings/Content Notes:** Sexual abuse of children (in the past, non-graphic description/discussion), physical abuse of children (in the past, non-graphic description/discussion), canon typical physical violence, victim blaming (not from a main character), homosexual slur (not from a main character), grieving/focus on minor canon character deaths, obsessive thoughts regarding past trauma.  
>  Written for Round 2 of the Teen Wolf Big Bang  
> Art by the wonderful [Chef_Geekier](http://chef-geekier.livejournal.com): [Art for Absolution](http://chef-geekier.livejournal.com/55484.html)

He didn't make the connection until the third time Stiles had Isaac over for dinner, not until he was watching Stiles take the last piece of chicken and then looking to Isaac and cutting it in half to share. Isaac smiled at Stiles, a full out goofy grin, which was what triggered the memory of a much younger Stiles and Isaac sitting together and sharing a snack. "Isaac, did you and Stiles used to have swimming lessons together?" he asked, his mind working to fill in the vague memories he had of Stiles splashing around in the community pool with Scott and a horde of other children so many years ago.

Isaac's eyes went wide and he looked to Stiles before looking back at the Sheriff. "I think so," he said, staring for a moment before ducking his head down to peer at his nearly empty plate. The smile that had been so bright before was completely gone.

"Isaac's dad taught swimming lessons. We were on the kids swim team together for, what, two years?" Stiles said, his voice pitched slightly too loud for the now quiet kitchen.

"Right," he said, feeling guilty now that the topic had come up. He hadn't realized that Mr. Lahey had taught the kids swimming lessons as well as the high school swim team. Stiles had stopped swimming the year his mom had died, and he hadn't questioned that, nor the fact that Stiles took up lacrosse the fall after. At the time he'd just been glad that Stiles was getting out of the house and doing something with his friends.

"Uh, so Isaac and I have a history project we've got to work on, so we'll be in the living room for a while," Stiles said, standing and collecting his plate from the table. Isaac followed suit, almost too quickly to be seen, and they both disappeared into the living room with Stiles chattering away about something, his words forcibly upbeat.

The Sheriff sighed and finished clearing the table, wondering if he maybe shouldn't try to talk to Isaac later and check in on how he was doing. Every time he'd seen Isaac around the kid had been a little skittish, but that wasn't entirely unexpected and he was glad to see that Stiles and Scott had befriended him. He knew that all three were hoping to be first line this year on the lacrosse team and he felt that would actually be a good thing for all of them, regardless of how rough the sport could get.

After spending some time working in his home office he stood and stretched, ready to take a break from the budget files and maybe get a drink before he took another shot at his spreadsheet. He paused in the hallway, his ears catching the sound of a low conversation coming from the living room, and he glanced down at his watch. It was past ten on a school night and while Stiles routinely stayed up later than that, it was time for them to wrap up so Isaac could go home. He made it as far as the entryway before he stopped, a question catching his attention.

"So, you never told him?" Isaac asked, his voice not quite casual.

There was a silence and then the sound of someone shuffling around. "No. Course not. We made a pact, remember? Me, you, Scott, and Matt. Though, after all that I kind of wonder, you know?"

He frowned, Matt's name a red flag if there ever was one. Stiles didn't talk much about Matt. After all the funerals for the deputies that had died, neither of them had the heart to say much about the string of murders that had led to that disaster. He hadn't gotten the impression that Stiles and Scott had known Matt well. But, a pact; that implied something shared, like friendship.

Isaac huffed with unamused laughter. "Yeah. Six years later and it didn't exactly come out for the better on our end. Not that I expected it to, but I never thought it would be like this either."

"Right? I mean, there's you and Scott, which I still say is awesome by the way - most of the time. And there's Matt, the less said the better, probably," Stiles said, his voice losing conviction.

"And Jackson," Isaac said quickly.

"Jackson too?" Stiles asked, sounding surprised.

"Yeah. Jackson lived across the street from me, how could he resist?" Isaac drawled. "I never understood how Jackson joined the swim team in high school. Different coach, but still."

Stiles sighed. "Well, it makes sense. I suppose we should just be glad you and Scott didn't grow scales too."

"But you seriously never told him?" Isaac asked again.

The Sheriff blinked, having completely lost the thread of conversation without ever finding it. It felt important, like he was listening to something that he should have already known, and he was almost positive that the 'him' Isaac had asked about meant _him_. Isaac was asking if Stiles had ever told his dad about something, something involving Matt and Jackson.

"Dude, no," Stiles repeated. "I couldn't have then and what would be the point now? He doesn't need to know."

"And you think Scott never told his mom either?" Isaac pressed.

Stiles snorted. "Are you kidding me? Your dad would have been dead way before last spring if he had. Mrs. McCall is fierce and I know for a fact that she has a baseball bat and isn't afraid to use it. Why? Did you tell anyone?"

"Who would I have told?" Isaac asked quietly.

"Yeah, guess so," Stiles agreed. "Okay, I give up. Let's finish this tomorrow?"

The sound of papers rustling and books closing followed. "Yeah, we have a pack meeting, but we can do it after. Maybe we can get Lydia to help us."

"Are you kidding me? She'll just list all the reasons we should have started this last month and then mock our feeble attempts to finish on time," Stiles said. "But I bet Peter will help if you ask him. If I ask he'll just say that I could be using my talents for so much more."

"He's right. See you tomorrow," Isaac said.

The Sheriff took his cue to smoothly step into the bathroom so that he wasn't seen, and then a few moments later the front door opened and then shut. He stood, his mind racing as he mulled over the conversation, and a minute later he heard Stiles climbing up the stairs. He left the bathroom and walked into the living room where the boys had been working. The space was relatively clean, though the coffee table had been dragged up to the couch to be used as a workspace, and the only thing that had been left behind was a spiral notebook on the floor that had haphazard history notes in what he would guess was Isaac's handwriting.

He flipped through the pages, smiling a little at the places where thoughts dropped off incomplete and lines arched all over the margins to connect different pieces of information. He held the notebook in his hands and mentally went through what he'd just overheard and tried to sense why he'd been left so uneasy. Parts of the conversation were simply nonsense, like they'd been talking in some kind of code, and yet other parts were astonishingly clear. His initial question about swimming lessons, and Isaac's father, had clearly been the trigger for the discussion, but there was more to it than that. Something that the boys had been keeping secret for years and evidently attributed to Matt's psychotic break. Mr. Lahey had been Matt's first kill, and the first murder in a serial spree was usually the most important. He sighed, not wanting to close his eyes and see Matt holding a gun on Stiles because those dreams had finally tapered off during the summer months. Whatever this was, whatever secret Stiles was keeping, once again it all seemed to lead back to the swim team, if maybe not the members of the swim team that Matt had murdered.

Standing, he went into the kitchen and left Isaac's notebook on the table where Stiles would see it before school the next morning. After making sure all the doors and windows were locked, he went upstairs and poked his head in Stiles' room. Stiles was sitting at his desk, his fingers moving rapidly over the keyboard to his laptop, and his lips were pressed in a tight line as he worked.

He knocked on the doorframe and tried to smile when Stiles looked over. "Everything alright?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound as weary as he felt.

"Yeah, just killer homework," Stiles said with a glance back to his computer. "I'll go to bed in an hour or two. You're working a double tomorrow, right?"

"I am, though you can come by the station for dinner with your old man, if you want," he offered, hoping that his son would take him up on it.

Stiles shook his head. "Thanks, but Isaac and I really have to finish this. I'll eat dinner with him while we're working. I'll text you when I get back home though."

"Thanks," he said dryly, and then watched his son for a long moment as he considered outright asking what the conversation with Isaac had been all about.

"Night, dad," Stiles said, smiling and then returning his attention to his computer and starting to type quickly once more.

"Goodnight, son," he said and backed away and then into his own room. When he was finally in bed, looking up at the ceiling, he found himself wondering if Beacon Hills had always been this confusing and he just hadn't noticed until now.

*****

He was in the kitchen refreshing his cup of coffee when he heard the front door open and the sound of heavy footsteps and excited chatter. Stiles' voice wasn't unexpected, nor Scott's, and by this point he was getting used to Isaac trailing along behind them. To hear Jackson talk about Stiles' potential as a midfielder and constructively critique Stiles' stick handling, and to hear Stiles respond positively and request that Jackson show him next time they were on the field was completely unexpected. To hear Jackson say yes, like it wasn't a big deal at all, was utterly mind-blowing. Early in the summer Jackson had requested that the restraining order be removed, the Sheriff had taken it as a sign that the boys had all worked something out and weren't at each other's throats any longer. But this was far closer to friendship than he'd anticipated in such a short amount of time, particularly since Stiles used to come home in middle school and complain about Jackson picking on him and Scott.

"Hey, do you have that book you were going to lend me?" Jackson asked, his voice ringing clear in the hallway.

"Yeah, upstairs, come on," Stiles said, and the stairs creaked as all four boys hurried up the steps.

In anticipation of feeding three or four teenaged boys, the Sheriff moved to start dinner. He and Stiles tried to trade back and forth on the nights they cooked, though they wound up with take-out more often than was probably healthy. After pre-heating the oven and locating an already thawing vegetable lasagna, he sat back down at the kitchen table and flipped through the case file once again. This particular file was intensely familiar to him, though he'd been keeping it in his bedroom instead of his office since he knew all too well that Stiles was both incorrigibly curious and knew how to pick the lock to his home office. This was the final file he'd compiled for the series of murders that had led to the massacre at the Sheriff's Department.

When he'd first put together the file he'd still been reeling from that terrifying night and he'd wanted everything to fit together neatly. And now that he was looking through the file again, with some time and distance from the actual event, it still did fit together neatly. Almost. He could accept that Matt had been unstable enough to murder ten people, he had certainly witnessed that firsthand. All of the murders were neatly connected through the 2006 BHHS Swim Team or because they'd been deputies working the night Matt had attacked the Sheriff's Department. He could even believe that Matt had showed up to destroy evidence linking him to the series of murders, with Matt hoping that it was before they'd made a positive ID, because it had been so very clear that Matt wasn't able to think rationally at the time of the attack. But, something was off about the whole picture and ever since he'd overheard Stiles and Isaac's discussion he'd been going over the details of the case trying to figure out what he'd missed.

The sound of feet thumping down the stairs was enough warning for him to close the file and slip it back into the back of the box where he kept case files he was actively working on.

"Are you staying for dinner?" Stiles asked.

It was Jackson who answered. "I'm supposed to meet up with Lydia in thirty minutes. I'll see you guys tomorrow."

The boys all said goodbye to Jackson and the front door shut. "I smell dinner," Scott said, and then paused. "Lasagna with vegetables."

"Good, that means he didn't find the deluxe cheese and meat lasagna I hid in the back of the freezer behind the frozen veggies," Stiles said.

That was good information and the Sheriff rolled his eyes to himself as he checked on the lasagna and decided that it wasn't eavesdropping if Stiles didn't know how to keep his voice down. "Dinner will be ready in ten minutes," he called and then added, "go wash up if you've just come in from lacrosse practice." The sound of feet thundering back up the stairs told him he'd made the right assumption.

Twenty minutes later, when his plate was cleared and the boys were all on their second helpings, they started talking about school and lacrosse, and he learned far more than he would have by directly questioning Stiles. Isaac and Stiles had gotten their history project finished on time, all thanks to someone named Peter who was evidently a friend of Isaac's, though Peter purportedly wasn't going to help them again if they left a project to the last minute. Scott was doing better in school this year, which would be a huge relief to his mother, and he was positive that they would all make first line in lacrosse. Stiles was less optimistic but committed to practicing, and the conversation devolved into lacrosse talk until the end of the meal.

"It sounds like you're getting along better with Jackson this year?" he asked after Scott had spent a few minutes on his and Jackson's thoughts about the team and Stiles and Isaac had been nodding along eagerly.

Stiles and Scott looked at each other for a long moment and he didn't have to see Stiles' face to know that his son was coming up with a quick explanation that probably wasn't anywhere close to the truth. "I think nearly dying changed a few things for Jackson," Stiles said finally, which actually probably was at least part of the truth.

"He's still a dick, but at least now he's not a dick to us," Scott added. "Small steps."

"It helps that he's back on Lydia's leash," Stiles added, and both Scott and Isaac groaned dramatically.

"Still not funny, won't ever be funny," Scott said.

Stiles only grinned. "It will always be funny."

"To you," Isaac pointed out.

And once again the Sheriff had completely lost part of the conversation, a double meaning that he wasn't quite getting, and he thought that the next time he saw Melissa McCall he would ask her if she felt the same way around the boys. Then again, with teenage boys, it probably wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

Isaac suddenly reached over and poked Scott on the shoulder. "The time, we should go soon."

Scott looked at the clock on the wall. "Oh yeah. Stiles, are you coming?"

"You mean, will I give you a ride?" Stiles asked, but he was already standing to clear the table and Scott and Isaac leapt in to help.

The Sheriff sat back and watched as his kitchen was cleaned up and then vacated, and despite the lack of leftovers he figured that he had it pretty good. It helped that the last few months had been quiet and he hadn't found Stiles lurking outside of a single crime scene.

"I'll be back in thirty minutes or so," Stiles said, popping back into the kitchen to grab his keys from where he'd abandoned them on the counter.

"Drive safe," he replied, deciding that it was best not to ask what they were running off to do at seven o'clock on a Thursday night. "Be home before I have to leave."

Stiles looked back. "Night shift? You're leaving just before nine?"

"Mhmm," he said and tapped his watch.

"Have you ever known me to be late?" Stiles asked and then darted out of the kitchen before he could respond.

The Sheriff refilled his cup of coffee again and wandered out into the living room just in time to watch Stiles' jeep pull out of the driveway - then he nearly fell over the set of lacrosse sticks that had been left behind on the floor. He checked for any stray practice balls that had rolled free from the nets and with a shake of his head set all of three sticks upright in the corner created by the front bookcase against the wall. He was just propping up the stick that read 'LAHEY' in block letters when his gaze caught on the bottom shelves. This particular bookcase wasn't used much, all of the books on it had belonged to his wife and while he hadn't the heart to remove the books he didn't tend to linger on them either. Every once in a while he would see Stiles with one of the books from the shelf and he was glad that he'd left the shelves as they were so that Stiles had the opportunity to read his mother's favorite authors with the same books she had held in her hands. The various books, fiction and non-fiction intermingled in a system he had never understood, weren't what held his attention, but instead the grouping of photo albums that lined the bottom shelf.

Again, these were places he tried not to dwell, the reminder that she was gone like a punch to the gut every single time. His fingers reverently traced across the mismatched covers until he found the one labeled **2004 -**. All the rest of the albums had a second year, indicating where they had ended, but this one had been left unfinished. He gently pulled it from the shelf and made the few steps to the couch before he sat with the album heavy in his lap. In the slowly fading light from the front windows he started to look through the pages, the only saving grace being that for the most part his wife had been holding the camera and wasn't in most of the pictures.

There were pictures of the house, of the yard, and of the barely tamed cat his wife had loved so much, but most of the pictures were of Stiles. He paused to chuckle at a picture of Stiles and Scott in their planet costumes for a school assembly, Stiles' arms stretched out to hold the rings of Saturn at a tilt while Scott was cradling a pile of Jupiter's moons against his chest. He continued through the pages, flipping past Halloween costumes, a Christmas tree, and messily painted Easter eggs until he reached what was clearly the summer, with messy ice cream faces and Stiles using his beach towel as a cape.

He looked closer at these pictures; kids running around in their bathing suits at the poolside, Stiles waving dramatically from the high dive, Scott and Stiles sharing a towel as they sat at the pool's edge, and then finally he caught a glimpse of Mr. Lahey in the background of one of the photographs. The next page over he found exactly what he'd been looking for, though he hadn't realized it until he saw it. The picture was of four boys. Stiles was in the middle, grinning broadly, Scott to his left. To Stiles' right was a boy that he recognized as a much younger Isaac, his curls damp and flattened against his head. And, at the far edge of the picture was another boy that he thought he recognized. The writing under the picture in his wife's neat hand read: _Scott, Stiles, Isaac, and Matt. Beacon Hills Elementary Summer Swim Team, June 2004._ Maybe it was just his knowledge of what was to come, but he thought that the young Matt in the picture looked a little lost, his smile not quite full.

By the time the front door opened to signal Stiles' return home, he had made it through another year and was examining the swimming pictures from the summer of 2005. He had turned a lamp on when it had gotten too dark to clearly make out the pictures and he looked up when a shadow fell across the pages.

"What are you looking at?" Stiles asked, leaning over the back of the couch.

"Old pictures," he said and patted the cushion next to him. When Stiles was seated he adjusted the album so it was on both of their laps. "The other day you mentioned the swim team you were on when you were younger. I thought I'd take a look."

Stiles didn't touch the pages as he stared down, his expression blank for a long moment before he blinked rapidly and pointed to one of the pictures. "Yeah, look. I was taller than Isaac there. That didn't last long."

He looked at the picture Stiles was pointing to and smiled because Stiles, Scott, and Isaac were all three hamming it up for the camera, pulling faces and holding their hands behind each other's heads. "You'll catch up. Stilinski men have late growth spurts," he assured, his eyes drifting over the rest of the page. The picture at the bottom was of a group of children swimming across the pool, Stiles having angled off course into the dark-haired boy next to him.

Stiles reached over and turned the page, the pictures from the pool leading into what was clearly the Fourth of July, Stiles making exaggerated motions with a pair of sparklers while the Sheriff stood in the background of the picture with a fire extinguisher next to him and a wry, fond smile. It was a good picture of them, and he knew if he closed his eyes he would be able to see his wife grinning wickedly as she took the photo. He realized that Stiles had gone still next to him and he followed Stiles' gaze back to the pictures of the pool, noticing that Stiles' fingers were resting on the edge and his fingernails were slightly denting the paper below the picture.

"I still have homework to finish," Stiles said suddenly, pushing the book back into his father's hands and standing. "You'd think the coach actually wants to throw half off us off the team with the assignments he's been giving us. On second thought, that's probably exactly what he wants. Goodnight, dad."

"Goodnight," he said, checking the time on his watch and then turning to see Stiles clatter up the stairs. He wondered if the abrupt departure was because Stiles had been remembering all these pictures being taken, and all of the moments after that she hadn't been there to document. He looked down at the page, smoothing his finger over the small dents Stiles had left behind, and considered the picture. Stiles and Scott were sitting on the edge of the pool, their feet dangling in, Mr. Lahey was visible at the edge of the picture kneeling down to talk with a group of kids, and in the water next to Stiles and Scott was a boy in his teens. It took him a moment to make the connection between the boy in the pool and Camden Lahey, who looked a year or so younger than the picture included in the military service file that had been forwarded to him during the investigation in the spring. He tapped the photo with his finger and then closed the album and stood to return it to the shelf.

He spent half of the night on patrol, and the other half back at the Sheriff's Department as he went through the backlog of paperwork. The entire time there was something pulling at the edge of his mind, an uneasy insistence that there was an inconsistency if only he would look at the right piece of evidence. After running through the open cases he knew it was the serial murders in the spring and he found himself standing in the empty holding area and staring at where he'd been left handcuffed and helpless to do anything. He touched the back of his head, the wound having long since healed even though he found himself touching it when he was worried, and wondered if this all wasn't some kind of a delayed trauma reaction. Maybe his mind was insisting that he knew something because he was desperate for the facts to be different. Like if he could change what he knew about the case, it would change how many people were buried in the cemetery and how many grieving families had been left behind.

He returned home just after ten in the morning. Stiles was already gone for school - the pile of lacrosse sticks gone from where he'd propped them up the night before. With the newspaper, a plate of toast, and a glass of orange juice, he sat down to breakfast, intending to sleep for a few hours before he worked a double and switched back onto a day schedule. It was on the second page of the paper that it struck him suddenly, and he quickly pushed aside the glass of orange juice as he spread the paper flat on the table. The story was about a nine year old boy, two counties to the south, who had fallen into a creek and drowned - he didn't know how to swim and he'd been out playing by himself. No one had reported him missing until after nightfall.

Abandoning his breakfast, he dug into the box of files and pulled out the same worn file he'd had out the evening before. He flipped through the pages until he found Scott's statement, skimming until he reached where Scott recounted what Matt had told him regarding the incident at the Lahey house where Matt had nearly drowned. Where Matt had nearly drowned because Camden Lahey had thrown him into the swimming pool and Matt couldn't swim. After rereading the section twice, even though he could quite clearly recall Scott relaying the story and sounding shaken as he did so, he stood and walked back into the living room. He found the page easily and the photo where Stiles had veered off course and swam into another boy. Underneath the picture was written: _Stiles and Matt, Swim Team, July 2005_.

On its own, it didn't mean much of anything. Matt clearly knew how to swim, the boys were in the deep end of the pool and Matt, at nine years old or so, didn't look at all troubled to be in the water. But still, it changed what had been fairly clear motivation for the murders Matt committed into something murkier and uncertain. He had never thought to question what Scott had told him about what Matt had disclosed, it had seemed insignificant overall and fit with what he knew of Matt and of Mr. Lahey.

He leaned back and stared at the page, trying to decide if this changed anything, and he found his eyes resting on a blank white space. A space where there had clearly been a photograph on the page previously. The caption at the bottom of the space only read _Elementary Swim Team, June 2005_ , without listing the specific people who had been in the picture. He turned the page and found another empty space, though this time he recalled which picture went there. There were still two small marks where Stiles had dented the page. Why Stiles had taken those two photos - for who else could it have been? - he hadn't the slightest idea, but it reaffirmed that all of this wasn't only in his mind. He turned back to the picture of Matt and Stiles in the pool and slid it out of the protective sleeve that held it to the page. This could go into his file until he decided what it meant, because clearly it did mean something.

*****

After taking the weekend to mull over the information, the dreams of Matt's attack on the Sheriff's Department coming back in full force, he came to the conclusion that he wasn't going to be able to set aside the case file until he could explain the inconsistency. He still had the list of the 2006 BHHS Swim Team members, though they hadn't identified Matt in time to be able to contact them to warn them of the danger, and when he got to work on Monday morning he made sure all of his deputies were settled and then shut himself inside his office and started to search for phone numbers and addresses.

There had only been fifteen members on the Swim Team in 2006 and six of those were dead along with their coach, Mr. Lahey. He organized the remaining names in alphabetical order and took notes as he made phone calls and discovered that most of the students had not remained in Beacon Hills. That had probably saved some of their lives. After leaving many messages asking for return phone calls, he stood and went to get a mug of coffee and to check in with the front desk to make sure that everything was still quiet. Beacon Hills was usually a quiet town, nothing serious with a few exceptions over the years. Those exceptions, like the series of murders in the late winter and spring of this year, and the Hale fire, tended to be particularly violent and deadly. He was finding it difficult to trust the quiet now, to not expect to be called out at any moment to another blood bath.

He had just finished checking in with the pair of deputies gathered in the bullpen when the deputy at the front desk flagged him down. "You have a call, line four," he said, and the Sheriff waved for him to transfer it down to his office.

"Sheriff Stilinski speaking," he answered and waited while the person on the other end of the line breathed.

"My name is TJ Cannon. You asked me to call you back." The man's voice sounded hesitant, almost frightened.

The Sheriff sat behind his desk and reached for his notes. TJ Cannon was one of the only 2006 swim team members who had stayed in Beacon Hills and was still alive. "Yes, thank you."

"Is this about Jessica? I went to her funeral, and to Tucker's funeral. They took Sean's body back to his parents in Washington," TJ said, dropping off at the end.

He stifled a sigh. It had only been six months since the deaths, which as he knew too well wasn't much time at all under the circumstances. "I'm sorry for intruding," he said, which was the absolute truth, "but I had some questions concerning some of the activities of the swim team in 2006."

TJ's laugh was short and harsh over the speaker on the phone. "You mean, you want to know what they did to deserve to be murdered?"

"Not at all," he said quickly. "But there is a particular party that might have played into later events, and I'm trying to track down anyone who was present who might be able to tell me more about it. It would have been in May 2006. Shortly after the swim team won the state championship."

"You're looking for Coach Lahey's inner circle," TJ said. "You know, I actually used to be jealous of Coach Lahey's favorites, but not making that list might have saved my life. The only person who was at that party who isn't dead is Ashley, and that's probably because she's at San Francisco State working on her Masters degree."

"Alright," he said, because that made his investigation far simpler. "Thank you for your time."

There was a pause on the line. "I can tell you one thing about that party though," TJ said, the conviction from his previous statement lost.

"I'm listening," he said, tapping his pen against the list after circling 'Ashley Cook'.

"Now, I don't know what happened. None of them would talk about it. But, whatever it was it must have been bad because Coach Lahey kicked Camden out of the house that night. We had three weeks left in school before we graduated, and Camden spent a week of that staying on my parent's couch. Coach Lahey didn't even come to the graduation ceremony, and right after that Camden left to go join the Marines, even though he'd already been accepted at the University of California in Sacramento," TJ said and then fell silent for another long moment. "And that's all I know. Whatever happened though, whatever it was, it shouldn't have ended like this."

"You're right," he agreed, because nothing should have ended like that had. "Thank you for your time. You've been very helpful."

TJ hung up without saying anything more and after a moment of listening to the dead line the Sheriff hung up as well and looked back at his haphazard notes. He made a note next to Camden's name, Camden who was supposed to be the one who had thrown Matt into the pool, according to what Scott had related. Would Lahey have kicked his son out of the house for that? It was hard to say, especially with the knowledge of the abuse Lahey had inflicted on Isaac weighing at the back of his mind. However, since Matt knew how to swim, that left a hole in the space of what had actually happened. He tapped his pen next to Ashely Cook's name and then turned to his computer to pull up the directory of students at San Francisco State University.

*****

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," he said adjusting the hot cup of coffee in front of him and looking at the young woman in the opposite seat. They had met halfway between Beacon Hills and San Francisco, Ashley Cook suggesting a quiet, small town diner that was almost completely vacant in the early afternoon. It was a Thursday, his first day off in over two weeks, and apparently he had nothing better to do than to drive out to the middle of nowhere trying to solve a case that was already solved.

Ashley looked up from her tea, the small spoon clattering against the edge of the mug as she met his gaze. "Well, after TJ said that you were asking about the State Championship party, I couldn't really say no. Especially not with everyone gone. We were close, you know? Coach Lahey worked us hard; before school, after school, on weekends. The swim team was basically our lives outside of school and we were really close."

He nodded knowingly; Stiles had formed bonds with some of the other lacrosse players that he hadn't even fathomed, Jackson for one, and he knew that working as a team for long periods of times tended to deepen friendships. "Was that party in particular significant? Was it different in some way?" he asked. He wanted to get as much of an unbiased version of events as possible, uncolored by the fear and horror that clouded that night at the Sheriff's Department.

"You could say that," Ashley said and abruptly picked up her tea. She avoided the Sheriff's eyes, staring out into the empty parking lot with her shoulders tense. After a minute she put down her cup and looked at the Sheriff again. "I'm sorry. It's just hard to talk about, for a lot of reasons really."

"That's okay, take your time," he said, picking up his coffee and sipping casually to demonstrate that he wasn't in a rush. Which he wasn't, because Stiles had lacrosse practice after school and then was meeting with some friends to work on a group project and had planned to stay with those same friends for dinner. Things had even relaxed enough between them that he actually believed his son was working on school projects with friends.

Ashley sighed and looked down into her tea. "I guess it started like any other party. We were at the coach's house and hanging around the pool. Drinking," she added, and looked up nervously.

The Sheriff nodded and motioned for her to continue, already aware that there had been alcohol at that specific party and all too aware that there was alcohol and pot at a lot of the high school parties.

"Anyway, we were just hanging around, playing, and so happy that we'd won state and that we would be graduating in a few weeks. Most of us had acceptance letters into universities and it was like the future had just opened up for all of us," Ashley said, and then shook her head. "I didn't notice when Coach Lahey left. I was sitting at the edge of the pool, talking to Kara about whatever, and suddenly I hear someone yelling. I turn around and it's the coach, and he's screaming at some little kid. I couldn't even make out what he was saying. The coach has this kid by the collar of his shirt and is dragging him out of the house, and the rest of us, we're all just frozen and watching. Maybe it was the beer or the pot, but it felt like everything had condensed into a bubble where we're seeing this happen but it almost didn't seem real."

After Ashley was silent for a long time, her hands clutched around her cup like it's an anchor, the Sheriff cleared his throat. "What happened after that?" he asked.

She let out a long breath. "The kid managed to get free, or maybe the coach let him go, but he's stumbling away and he's not looking where he's going. He falls into the pool, and we're still all sitting there staring. None of us move. The coach kneels down at the side of the pool and at first I think he's pulling the kid out, right? That's what it looked like. But, and I was life guard certified and had been for two years already, I realized it was taking too long, longer then it should. And then I see that he's holding this kid under water and the kid is struggling, but the coach has his head held down. And the kid just stops moving." Ashley blinked and her eyes were noticeably watering. 

He's about to interrupt when she took another breath and started again. "Coach Lahey finally pulls him out, gets him to cough up water, and starts yelling at him again. Now he's screaming at him not to tell anyone, and then the coach just walks away, like nothing even happened. Someone, Tucker maybe, started laughing. And it's not because it was funny, it wasn't, but he was drunk and a little high, and we're all super freaked out, and we all laugh. I can't even explain it, couldn't then either. The kid ran off, out of the side gate in the yard, and we all left a little bit later when the coach didn't come back out. Sean and I were sober enough to drive, and we all went back to Jessica's because her parents weren't home. And after that we never talked about it. After that I could barely even look at myself, not for a long time." She was visibly shaking now, one hand holding tightly to the edge of the table.

He stared across the table at Ashley, trying to reason out what he'd just been told. In his line of work he gets lied to a lot and he's seen a lot of good actors too, but this seemed real. As real as what Scott had told him. At the very least it explained why Matt, who could swim, had nearly drowned. "And none of you ever said anything about this?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Ashley shook her head. "Not even to each other. I think we all felt guilty that we didn't do anything. I felt guilty at least. I have a little brother, Jamie, and he's a bit younger than that kid. And after that, I just kept thinking what if that had been Jamie? What if someone was hurting my little brother and people just sat there and watched? What if Coach Lahey had killed that kid, and we hadn't done a thing to stop him? None of us wanted to talk about that," she said and looked up. "I do get that we should have said something, I really do, and I wish we had. And not just because that little kid was the one who killed the coach and Jessica and everyone. Right? It was him?"

He nodded regretfully. They had kept as much of the case quiet as they could, which was helped by the fact that there were so many minors involved, and the papers had wound up only printing the bare facts about the case. "Yes, I believe it was."

"I was going to go back for Tucker's funeral, but I had midterms that week. If I had gone, he would have found me too, right?" Ashley asked.

"It's possible," he agreed, though he did think that being out of Beacon Hills had probably saved her life. "Where was Camden Lahey while all of this was happening at the party?"

Ashley shook her head. "I don't know. I saw him at the start of the party, but he slipped away to go do something. I didn't see him again until almost a week later and he had bruises all over his arms and on his neck. He wouldn't say how he got them, not even when Kara asked." She raised her eyebrows significantly. "The coach was always harder on Camden than he was on the rest of us. With the rest of the team, he would yell and make us do laps and dives over and over, but it was always because he wanted us to do better, to be the best. With Camden, the coach always said it was about being the best, but it didn't look that way most of the time."

That directly contradicted what Scott related about Camden throwing Matt into the pool, though it seemed the only points the stories did agree on were that Coach Lahey had pulled Matt from the pool and had threatened him. "What about Isaac Lahey, Camden's younger brother? Was he there?"

"He was in the house somewhere, but I didn't see him for more than a second or two," Ashley said. She looked down at her tea again. "Camden kinda took care of Isaac, you know? I don't think the coach paid much attention to him. Isaac would come to the high school in the afternoon while we had swimming practice. He'd watch from the bleachers, do his homework while he waited, that sort of thing. Some days after practice Camden would swim with Isaac, even though the coach would leave without them."

The Sheriff nodded and considered the young woman sitting across from him, adding it all together in his mind. Ashley's hair was shorter than in the 2006 BHHS Swim Team photos, cut above her shoulders now, and the lines around her eyes seemed wearied. He'd done his research, not willing to trust his first impression of her when so much about this case had twisted around on itself. She had excellent grades and was working on a Masters degree in social work. Her younger brother was a freshman at Beacon Hills High, and she traveled back to Beacon Hills during school breaks. He had seen nothing to indicate that she'd been lying to him or withholding information and nothing she said had contradicted any of the absolute facts about the case. "Is there anything else you want to tell me?" he asked finally, hoping for some passing thought that would make everything fall into place.

"The kid, he's dead, right? My mom said that he committed suicide?" Ashley asked, staring past the Sheriff with an almost haunted expression.

"He did," the Sheriff affirmed and waited, watching her expression closely.

Ashley's eyes closed and her head bowed. "My mom says that everything comes full circle, that there are no loose ends and nothing unconnected. If she's right, then why am I still here?"

He wanted to tell her that there was no rhyme or reason to who was buried in a graveyard and who lived to tell the tale. He had experienced death often enough in his own time to know the truth of that, but he also understood the strength that came from believing that there was a reason behind everything. "Do you still swim?" he asked, instead of telling her that it was luck or chance that she had survived.

"Yeah," she said, blinking a few times and then looking up. "I had a scholarship during my undergraduate degree for being on the swim team. Even though I'm not on the team now, I still swim almost every day."

"Good," he told her. "That's good. Keep doing that." He pulled out enough money to cover both of their drinks and a tip and stood. "Thank you for your time, Ashley."

He took a single step before she spoke. "Did it help? Did any of that help?"

"It did," he said, entirely truthfully. He nodded once more and then walked away, his mind occupied with the conflicting tales the entire drive back to Beacon Hills.

*****

The following five days were quiet, at least to anyone watching from the outside. He worked, patrolled, gave a safety lecture at the Beacon Hills Elementary School, and even managed to sit down for a few meals with his son. Each time he thought about asking Stiles what was going on, but every time they were alone Stiles talked nearly nonstop about school or lacrosse, or peppered him with questions about a case, and he couldn't make himself interrupt. _'He doesn't need to know',_ in Stiles' voice, constantly echoed in his mind, and he was brought back to the few weeks leading up to the massacre at the Sheriff's Department and how Stiles hadn't even been able to look him in the eye by the end.

He had written out the series of events, as described by Ashley Cook, and lined them up with the version that Scott had given him. Of course, Scott was working from what he'd been told by Matt, but all the same, from the perspective of a Sheriff and not of a father he was forced to admit that her version seemed more likely. Which left him with the dilemma if Stiles and Scott actually knew this, and had lied to him, or if Matt had simply lied to Scott. But if that was the case, how was that related to whatever secret the boys were keeping? Assuming it was related at all.

On Tuesday, after finishing working a double, he was just leaving his home office when he heard the front door open and shut.

"I'm just going to grab a quick shower and a change of clothes, then we can go," Stiles called. "Give me ten minutes."

"I don't know why you don't just shower in the locker rooms," Scott said. "We're going to be late."

"Like you care about being late," Stiles replied, his voice growing distant with the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.

The Sheriff stepped into the hallway and found Scott standing by himself, his gaze focused on his phone and his thumbs working over the tiny keypad. His lacrosse stick was cradled in the crook of his arm, the end resting against the floor, and his hair was damp.

"Hey, Mr. Stilinski," Scott said, looking up from his phone and then putting it in his pocket.

"Scott," he replied, glancing up at the squeal of the pipes as hot water was pumped upstairs. "Do you have a minute?"

Scott looked worried for just a moment before he smiled, the same smile he gave every time Stiles and Scott were about to get into trouble over whatever dumb stunt they'd pulled this time. He propped his lacrosse stick up in the corner and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Sure? Me and Stiles are going to go meet up with some of the team in a bit, though. If that's okay?"

"That's fine," he said, actually glad that Stiles and Scott had finally connected with their teammates and were hanging out with more than just each other. "Why don't we step into my office," he said, leading the way without waiting for a response from Scott. A minute later they were seated and now Scott was twisting his lips, obviously trying to figure out what they'd done in order to get called into the Sheriff's office.

"Scott," he said, pausing because he knew he was reopening old wounds for Scott just by asking this. Matt had been a teammate to them, possibly even a friend, and Scott had been shot during the attack. Even if it had turned out to be a graze, Scott had still been hurt and been forced to beg for his mother's life. "Scott, I wanted to ask you something about that night at the Sheriff's Department."

From Scott's suddenly guarded expression it was clear he knew exactly what night he was talking about. "What about it?" Scott asked.

"After everything was over, you told me that Matt had said some things about a party that happened at the Lahey house in 2006?" he asked, wanting to absolutely make sure they were on the same page.

Scott nodded. "Yeah. He said that's why he went after the people that he did, like Mr. Lahey."

The Sheriff nodded encouragingly. "Could you tell me again what Matt said happened? Any specific details you remember would be helpful."

"Why are you asking?" Scott said after a long moment of silence. "There can't be a trial, because Matt's dead. Right?"

"I just have to tie up a few loose ends in the case," he said, and it was the truth. Maybe it was wrong to press Scott to remember that night for no other reason than to satisfy his need to settle this inconsistency; actually, it undoubtably was. But it felt like if he could answer this question then it would put his worries to rest that something else was wrong and just waiting to break free and unleash devastation on Beacon Hills. Maybe the next time he and Stiles and the McCalls wouldn't be so lucky.

Scott pressed his lips together and looked away. "Matt said that he'd been there to visit Isaac, to trade comic books, and that the swim team was having a party. And Isaac's brother threw him in the pool, but Matt couldn't swim and he drowned. Mr. Lahey pulled Matt out and yelled at him that he wasn't allowed to tell anyone because Mr. Lahey was letting the swim team drink," Scott reiterated dutifully. "That's pretty much all he said about it."

That was essentially what Scott had told him before, though with less detail this time. "Matt said that Camden threw him in the pool? Specifically?" he asked, frowning when Scott jolted a little when he said 'Camden'.

"Yeah, I think so," Scott said, reaching up to run a hand through his hair.

"And Matt said that he couldn't swim?" he asked, trying to discern how much of Scott's fidgeting was coming from remembering that night and how much could possibly be Scott trying to evade a direct answer.

"Yeah. I think he was afraid of the water. Matt fell in the pool at Lydia's house, at her birthday party, and he freaked out," Scott said, shrugging as he looked up at the Sheriff. "He was freaked out at the Sheriff's Department too. Even though he was holding the gun, he was crying and it was like he didn't even realize it."

He took in Scott's tight frown and breathed out slowly. It was sometimes hard to remember that Matt had been a classmate of Scott and Stiles', that they had known him on the lacrosse field and had gone to school with him for years. That, in a way, this was a betrayal to Scott and Stiles when to him it had been an outright attack by someone who was dangerous and irrational. He took out a picture from his file, this one of Stiles, Scott, Isaac, and Matt - he'd gone back to the photo album to take it out after he'd returned from talking with Ashley Cook. He pushed it across the desk and watched as Scott leaned forward to look at it. "Do you remember that Matt was on the elementary swim team with you and Stiles when you were kids?" he asked.

Scott picked up the picture, his brow furrowing as he stared at it. When he set it back down his eyes were oddly blank. "I guess so," he said. "I hadn't really thought about it."

"Which would mean that Matt should know how to swim," he insisted.

Scott looked down, his hands now curled into fists on his lap. "I guess. I don't know. That's just what Matt told me. Maybe he forgot how to swim?" Scott suggested, and then when the Sheriff raised his eyebrows, he added, "or maybe he panicked? Maybe he lied."

"Maybe," he allowed, watching Scott's shuttered expression. This wasn't at all like the Scott he was used to seeing. Scott was a little more reserved than Stiles, true, but in the past he'd usually been able to tell what Scott was thinking just from watching for a few seconds. Right now he hadn't the slightest idea and that was a little unnerving. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," Scott said, standing as he spoke. "Maybe he made it different in his mind. You know, like when something really bad happens and so you tell yourself it was different. And if you tell yourself hard enough, you can almost believe it."

He stared at Scott, chilled and concerned. That was something he never would have expected to hear from Scott. Stiles, maybe, if Stiles ever sat still long enough to talk about this sort of thing, but not Scott.

"Scott? Dude! We're going to be late!" Stiles shouted, clattering down the steps.

Scott closed his eyes, his lips quirking in a tired smile, and when he opened his eyes again it was like he was back to the Scott he had always known. "Now he cares," he said to himself as he backed away. "We've gotta go. I'll see you around, Mr. Stilinski."

"Glad to hear it," he said quietly. "Say hi to your mom for me."

Scott smiled uncertainly at him and ducked out of the office, the sound of Stiles speaking rapidly at Scott filling the air for the few moments before the front door opened and then slammed shut once again.

The Sheriff sat, knuckles of his hand pressed to his mouth, and he wondered how each time he spoke to someone about this case he wound up with more questions than answers. Had he underestimated the effect of that night on Scott, along with Scott's ability to keep all of that hidden away? Possibly. Stiles and Scott had both seemed to bounce back from the attack on the Sheriff's Department, and Stiles had kept quiet about any problems he'd had after being roughed up by the opposing team the night of the lacrosse championship game. He'd watched them carefully over the summer, keeping an eye on their lacrosse training the backyard and on their late night movie marathons, and while they both tended to stay out later than he'd like some nights, he hadn't seen anything that suggested they were struggling with post traumatic stress.

He opened the file again and put the picture he'd shown Scott back in the front. The cover page listed the very basics of the case, the number of people murdered, the suspect, the charges, the result. None of those numbers and names would change, nothing he could do now would change anything on that paper, but he couldn't let it go and close the file for good. Not yet. When he woke he discovered that he'd fallen asleep at his desk, his head cradled in his arm on the file. He carefully put the file away before he stood and painfully stretched. With a shot or two of whiskey, he made it up the stairs and into his own bed, not checking in on Stiles for fear of what he might ask.

*****

The next two days were nearly entirely consumed by working the fallout of a party that left two thirteen year olds in the hospital, one with a concussion and the other with alcohol poisoning. The party itself had happened during school hours, though not at the middle school itself, and had ended when a panicked teenager called 911 because one of the young teens had fallen and was unconscious. Grace, the teen with the concussion, was the Mayor's daughter, which left the Sheriff with the unfortunate task of investigating underage drinking that had taken place in the Mayor's pool house. The scandal, when the newspapers were finished with it, would be overblown, but the only thing the Sheriff could think was that at least this time there had been no dead bodies.

On the second day of the case the two teens in the hospital had recovered enough to be interviewed, and he found himself once again with a set of conflicting stories. The boy with alcohol poisoning explained that it was Grace's boyfriend, who was the captain of the middle school basketball team, who had convinced Grace to have a party. Grace was firmly insisting that she'd done it herself and that she hadn't even invited any of the older kids who had shown up. The rest of the partygoers, the ones his deputies had been able to track down at least, either denied any knowledge or directed blame at various members of their class.

He sat next to Grace's bedside, watching as she brushed her long hair away from the bruises that ran down the side of her face, and wondered if this had been Matt six years ago, what would he have been saying. That he'd fallen? That someone had thrown him in the pool? That someone had held him under the water until he nearly died? He would put money on it, that Matt, if asked right after the fact, would say it had been an accident. Grace pressed her fingers against her swollen and discolored jawline, wincing as she did so. He thought of Isaac's black eye that day in the cemetery and how Ashley Cook had said Camden had been bruised when he'd returned to school after the party. "I can't help you if I don't know the truth," he told Grace, looking into her eyes when she looked up at him.

Grace stared at him for a long time, her eyes finally falling to the badge on his jacket. "I don't need any help," she said. "Everything is fine."

The Sheriff softly sighed as he stood. "Alright," he said. "Thank you for your time." He walked from the hospital room, only to being joined by Grace's mother a moment later.

She stood next to him and as soon as the door fell shut she threw her hands in the air and shook her head. "Teenagers."

He nodded empathetically. "Keep talking to her. If she tells you something I should know, you know how to reach me."

"Thank you," she said, putting her hand on his forearm. "I appreciate that you tried."

There was any number of things he could have told her, about how it was his job or that he was glad to do it, but he just nodded and gently removed her hand. "I'll keep you informed as the case progresses," he said, bobbing his head and then walking away. In reality there wasn't much to it, all of the kids seen at the party would be cited, though due to their ages and the fact that the party was on private property it was most likely that the charges would be downgraded in court. Since the Mayor and his wife weren't home at the time of the party and the alcohol hadn't come from their house, they wouldn't be charged with distributing alcohol to minors, though that wouldn't prevent the press from having a field day with the story.

The next day he remained on call but stayed at home. He waited until Stiles had left for school and then brought out the box he'd brought home from the office that held all of the materials he'd gathered over the course of the investigation in the spring. He made stacks by murder victim on the kitchen table and spread out the timeline on the counter. Starting with the murders of the deputies at the Sheriff's Department, he worked his way back through each victim until he arrived at Mr. Lahey. There were pictures of the Lahey house; the mess that had been discovered inside that was indicative of a struggle which had partially been what had led him to bring in Isaac for questioning.

At the time, before it had been a serial case, Isaac had seemed like his most likely suspect - partially because he'd been his only suspect. He reached the back of the file and found the copy of Isaac's medical records, which he had requested as soon as he'd suspected that Mr. Lahey had been abusing Isaac. If they had gone ahead and pressed charges against Isaac they'd have needed those records; he had figured that the defense attorney would suggest that the murder had been in self defense and that it was likely the truth. By the time Isaac's medical records had arrived there had been two more murders and Isaac was no longer on his list of suspects, so he had placed the records with the file without giving them more than a glance to confirm what he had already guessed.

He looked at them now, forcing himself to read all four pages that summarized broken bones - Isaac's collar bone twice, his left arm once, two fingers, and three cracked ribs - a concussion, and a gash across Isaac's shoulder that had required fourteen stitches. Each incident had an explanation, a fall down the stairs, a rough lacrosse practice, and even slipping on a patch of ice during what was probably the only snowfall they'd had that winter. The incidents went back in time, though the escalation as time passed was clear, and it was on the final page that he found what he'd been looking for without knowing that he had been looking for something specifically. The date was May 12th, 2006, which according to the newspaper article he'd found online was the day after the swim team had won the state championship. Mr. Lahey had brought Isaac into the hospital in the afternoon and had stated that Isaac had gotten into a fight with some older boys in the neighborhood. The description of the bruising and lacerations left him reeling, along with the simple notation at the top that said Isaac had been ten at the time.

More had happened at that party than just Matt being drowned, whether or not it had been intentional, and the only person other than Ashley Cook who had been at that party and was still alive was Isaac Lahey. The Sheriff had worked enough cases that he could put together the very basics between what Ashley had told him and Isaac's medical records. Something had happened that night that spurred Mr. Lahey to nearly drown Matt, to beat Camden and kick him out of the house, and to start or escalate the cycle of abuse with Isaac. He thought of Stiles and even though he could see it play out in his mind, a flush of rage driving him, it covered him in a cold sweat of fear. What he couldn't imagine is what would drive him to such a state. The only person left who could answer the question of what had set off Mr. Lahey that night was Isaac.

*****

The kitchen was cleared of all of the files by the time he heard the front door open and footsteps in the front hall.

"I still can't believe they're making you retake chemistry this year, and again with Harris. That's bullshit," Stiles said, his voice ringing with righteous indignation.

"I didn't pass chemistry last year. I wasn't even passing before I missed so much school," Isaac said, his voice less clear than Stiles' but still audible.

"Yeah, well, Harris is going to have to pass you this year. Between me and Lydia, you are going to ace every single test," Stiles promised as the duo walked into the kitchen.

Isaac was shaking his head as he walked. "Only if you dress up as me and take the tests for me."

Stiles looked Isaac up and down and snorted. "Sadly, I don't quite have the same flair with a leather jacket. Someone might notice. Come on. Snacks and then we'll go over the lab until you can do it with your eyes closed, though I don't recommend that because, you know, chemistry." It was only then that Stiles glanced over to the kitchen table. "Dad! You're home," he paused to look at the clock, "early?"

"A bit," he agreed, watching where Isaac had frozen next to the counter and was watching him with a gaze that wasn't quite wary, but wasn't at ease either. Isaac had always given the Sheriff a wide berth, which he'd attributed to Isaac's history and that he'd brought Isaac in for questioning after the death of Isaac's father. He'd always tried to give Isaac space, figuring that he would relax a little as he got used to spending time with Stiles and Scott.

He paused, watching as Stiles unearthed a frozen veggie pizza and shoved it in the oven, and wondered if what he wanted to know was worth bringing back all of this for Isaac. Was it enough to know that something had happened, something that had set Matt on the path to murder and destruction, without ever knowing the specifics of the event? The newspaper rustled in his hands, the story of the underage drinking party at the Mayor's all over the front page, and he sat in torn thought while Stiles and Isaac messed around in the kitchen.

Before long the boys joined him at the kitchen table, demolishing the pizza in about the same amount of time it would take for a horde of starved piranhas to consume a newly discovered source of meat. Stiles managed to continue a one-sided conversation even as he ate, and the Sheriff noticed that Isaac's eyes flickered back and forth between Stiles and the Sheriff. Clearly Isaac was aware he was being subtly observed and he hunched down in his chair as he ate his share of the pizza and nodded or shook his head when Stiles paused for a response.

The Sheriff waited until they'd both finished eating, not even a spare crust of the pizza remaining, and came to the decision that he would ask but refrain from pressing for information. If Isaac wanted to tell him, great, if not, he'd accept that and try to stop chasing after ghosts. "Isaac," he started, immediately gaining Isaac's full attention, "I was wondering if I could ask you about something."

Stiles went still and met Isaac's gaze when Isaac immediately looked to him. When Stiles didn't give any visible indication of what Isaac should do, Isaac looked back at the Sheriff and nodded, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"Around six years ago there was a party at your family's house with the high school swim team, and it's been said that Matt Daehler was in attendance. Something happened that night, something that hurt people, and if you're able to tell me, I'd like to know what it was," he said, picking his words carefully as he watched Isaac.

Isaac's eyes fell to the table though the rest of his body became statue-still. "What does it matter any more?" he asked, glancing up through his eyelashes, his eyes wide and his breathing shallow. "My dad is dead. Camden's dead. Matt's dead. What happened isn't really relevant now, right?" His voice cracked at the last word and he quickly turned to Stiles.

"Perhaps not," he allowed gently, watching curiously as Stiles placed his hand on Isaac's forearm. "Though I'd imagine Matt's parents might like to know what happened to their son, if that's possible."

Stiles looked up suddenly, his attention drawn from Isaac, and his mouth pressed into a thoughtful frown. He nodded once, his eyes meeting his father's, and then turned back to Isaac. "I've got this. Go to Scott, let him know," Stiles said, his voice pitched low as he ducked his head to catch Isaac's gaze.

Isaac glanced at the Sheriff and then looked back to Stiles. "Are you sure? Stiles..."

"I'll take care if it, it will be fine. We knew this might happen," Stiles said, and he stood with his hand still on Isaac's arm. "Go find Scott. I'll be okay."

Isaac stood and walked with Stiles to the hallway, turning back once to look at the Sheriff before he let Stiles guide him out of the house. That look, chin high and eyes narrowed, was one of warning and intent; gone was the Isaac with hunched shoulders and in his place was a young man who radiated the promise of danger. The Sheriff shifted in his chair, disturbed by the change he'd seen come over Stiles and Isaac; it was as though they'd removed the masks of everyday teenagers and revealed two serious young men who were capable of communicating in shorthand and had plans and contingencies.

Stiles came back into the kitchen, his expression still tightly grim, and he paced across the floor several times with his hands motioning at waist level by his sides.

The Sheriff was familiar enough with his son to know that Stiles was rehearsing what he was going to say, working through the deluge of thoughts to pick out what was relevant. As much as he appreciated this, because talking with Stiles usually resulted in a barrage of unordered information, it only made him more concerned. Stiles only ever worked out what he needed to say in advance when it was important and he was anxious about how his dad would react. He'd only ever seen Stiles do the self-rehearsal twice and never for this long.

Stiles came to a stop still facing away from the Sheriff, took a deep breath and exhaled, and then took several determined steps into the kitchen proper. He took a glass from the cupboard, and before the Sheriff could react, Stiles poured himself a shot of whiskey and downed it in one gulp.

"Stiles!" He stared in disbelief as Stiles made an exaggerated face at the taste and then replaced the bottle of whiskey and put the empty glass over on the counter next to the sink.

"I'm not having this conversation completely sober," Stiles said, finally looking at his dad.

His objections about the whiskey died on his lips as he looked at Stiles and saw the edge of raw pain that Stiles was failing to completely hide. A stab of cold fear set him straight in his chair and he purposefully adjusted his body language to appear as nonthreatening as possible. Stiles' posture relaxed slightly in response and the Sheriff nodded.

"There's something I have to tell you before I can tell you about what was going on with Matt. Isaac told me and Scott about it the other day, after you asked Scott about it again, but there's something else you've got to know first." Stiles pushed away from the kitchen counter and started to pace again, frequently looking to his dad to check his reaction.

"I'm listening," he said, his heart sinking at the way Stiles' gaze dropped to the floor, the way his expression contorted with shame.

Stiles' shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath and he stopped pacing when he reached the wall opposite his dad. He leaned against the wall, his head rocking back and forth ever so slightly. "Scott and I were on the summer swim team for two years when we were in elementary school, the team that Isaac's father taught. Isaac and I were sort of friends, we both liked _Nightcrawler_ and _Batman_ , and sometimes when Mom was busy I'd go over to Isaac's house after swim practice. They didn't live that far from here, close enough that I could ride my bike home after. Scott came with us sometimes, and Scott went over to Isaac's a lot by himself too, when his parents were fighting so much. Matt too, but Matt was closer to Isaac than he was with me and Scott. Evidently Jackson hung out with Isaac sometimes too, but I didn't know that until just recently. Jackson was never really good at making friends outside of Danny and who even knows how that happened."

He could feel his heart beating almost painfully in his chest as he watched Stiles' expression flicker with amusement before settling back into steely, grim determination. "I wasn't aware you were friends with Isaac and Matt when you were younger. I don't think I ever saw you with anyone but Scott," he offered when Stiles didn't continue after a minute.

Stiles shook his head. "We mostly saw them at school and at swim practice during summer. And it wasn't really that long. Two summers. After that we didn't really talk anymore. Matt was different, and Isaac stopped talking with pretty much everyone."

"After the party in 2006?" he guessed.

"Yeah," Stiles said, and then closed his eyes to exhale and rubbed his hand against his throat and his collar bone.

He knew well enough by now to recognize the signs of Stiles' fighting back a panic attack and could see that Stiles was starting to have difficulty breathing. "Do you need to sit down? Take a break? A glass of water?"

Stiles shook his head. "No, let's just get through this. I can do it. It's just words." He shrugged his shoulders slightly as he talked to himself.

His eyebrows rose and he thought back to Isaac asking if Stiles had ever told, a rush of possibilities clouding his mind, all of them too likely. "Stiles?"

"Just let me do this. Okay," Stiles said. He opened his eyes and nodded firmly. "Camden used to help his dad with the kids swim team. He'd help us get our strokes right, and he'd time our laps across the pool, and he taught us how to dive. Sometimes at Isaac's house we'd play in the pool there, and Camden would come in with us." Stiles focused at the wall behind his dad and rested his hand over the hollow of his throat. "At first it was just little touches, stuff that could be an accident or that was just Camden playing around. It was weird, but Camden was way nicer at teaching us swimming than his dad and he was kind of Isaac's cool older brother. I think we all wanted to be like him, as stupid as that seems now. Then it was more than just accidentally brushing up against us, and not just in the pool anymore. Anyway, you get the idea," Stiles said, waving his free hand as he slumped against the wall and stared up at where the wall met the ceiling.

It felt like he could barely hear around the ringing in his ears as he stared at his son, disbelief warring with his professional knowledge of how easy it was for someone to hurt a child. "You're saying that Camden Lahey touched you sexually?" he asked, silently willing Stiles to tell him that he'd misunderstood.

"Me, and Scott. And Isaac and Matt. And evidently Jackson too, which I didn't know until Isaac told me a few weeks ago, but it makes sense, them being neighbors and everything," Stiles said and then pressed his lips together. His eyes darted to his dad and then skittered away again. "I'm sorry."

"Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, immediately wishing he could take the questions back when he saw Stiles flinch. The handful of times he'd helped parents through similar situations he'd counseled them against asking those questions directly, just as his training suggested. He knew there were any number of reasons that made sense to children and teenagers as to why they shouldn't tell about what was happening to them.

"Mom was getting sick," Stiles said quietly, the words like a knife rending the air between them. "One of the reasons she signed me up for the swim team was to keep me out of trouble during the summer, I heard her say that on the phone to Scott's mom. She was always tired, and you were busy and you were worried, and I was always getting into trouble at school. I couldn't really say that I didn't want to be on the swim team anymore, or not go over to Isaac's when I knew that mom was resting at home and I had to let her rest. After, after she was gone, when I said I didn't want to swim anymore, you just said that was fine and I got to hang out at Scott's house most of that summer because his dad was finally gone and for some reason you and Scott's mom decided that we could handle ourselves for a few hours at a time. I honestly don't know what you were thinking."

"Stiles, stop," he said, hating that his son was attempting to defuse the situation with self-deprecating humor because of him.

Stiles was silent for all of thirty seconds before he started speaking again. "We made a pact, because I'd just learned the word pact and I thought it sounded cool. Scott couldn't tell his parents because they were already fighting all the time and he didn't want to make it worse. Matt told us his parents would think he was making it up because he didn't want to be on the swim team - he always did hate getting water on his face. And Isaac's dad? Well none of us ever thought that was a good idea, which turned out to be absolutely true. You wanted to know what happened that night? With Matt at that party?"

It took him a few moments to swallow past the lump in his throat and remember that that was what had started his line of questioning originally. "Yes," he said, hoping that this was liking lancing a wound and it would be better to get it out all at once.

"This is what Isaac told me and Scott, so, there's that," Stiles said, finally walking over to the table and sitting across from his dad. "Matt had come over to see Isaac, just like he told Scott, and they were in Isaac's bedroom doing a comic book trade - Isaac says it was _Spider-Man_ , if we're being picky about details. Camden came in, and he was messing around with them. Told them that they were 'party favors' for later. Lahey walked in on Matt sucking off Camden, freaked out and dragged Matt from the room. Isaac says he doesn't know what happened to Matt, not exactly, but the whole drowning thing probably factors in there somewhere. Anyway, Lahey came back and beat the hell out of Camden, and then kicked him out of the house for being a 'fucking faggot'. Then he beat Isaac for _'letting'_ Camden do that to him. Later, at school, Isaac told me and Scott he couldn't be friends with us anymore, and while we didn't know what had happened at the time, I think we got that things were bad for Isaac and we stayed away like he asked."

"God, Stiles," he said, caught between numb and reeling. He could feel his hands shaking as he pressed them against his thighs. His mind was still stuck back on the fact that someone had hurt his son, someone had done this to his son, and he hadn't done anything about it. He pressed his hand to his mouth and shook his head, at a loss of what to do or say. The people who deserved his fury were gone, well beyond his reach, but that didn't make the anger burning deep inside die with them. 

"Yeah, I know," Stiles agreed, running a hand over his face. "I promise, I totally get that if we had said something at the time, maybe Matt wouldn't have started killing people. I really, really get that. I just, after it was all over I couldn't let myself think about it. Things were already bad with mom gone, and if I let myself think it made the panic attacks worse. And with Scott's parents getting a divorce, and you know how much of a mess that was, I think he did the same. And, by the time things were better again, I didn't see any point in telling you. I didn't want you to have to know, because you already deal with so much because of me."

He was on his feet before he registered standing up, barely aware that his face was wet, and he knelt at Stiles' side and ignored the cracking of his knees as they bent. "Son, I do not blame you, not for any of this. Do you hear me?" He placed his hands on Stiles' shoulders and waited until Stiles met his eyes. "You hear me?"

Stiles swallowed hard and nodded and in a matter of seconds Stiles' was off the chair and in his arms. The Sheriff held on like someone might snatch Stiles away if he let go, rocking him out of some parental instinct that he didn't fully understand but had felt the first time he'd cradled Stiles in his arms and found himself gently shifting back and forth. He couldn't tell if the damp was from his own tears or if Stiles was crying as well, but when Stiles finally pulled away his face was remarkably dry.

"We're okay?" Stiles asked, his expression no less desperately pained than it had been at the start of their conversation. "You and me?"

"We're okay," he agreed, forcibly swallowing back his anger. He wouldn't let Stiles see that, not after everything he'd just heard. It felt like it should be night, like hours or years should have passed during their conversation, but not even a full hour had gone by. It wasn't even time for dinner yet and daylight streamed in from the windows.

Stiles stood and offered his hand to help get his dad up from the floor. When they were both standing, the Sheriff leaning against the edge of the table, Stiles looked around the kitchen and then at the door. "I'm going to go upstairs. Homework and stuff, you know?"

"Alright. I'm here, if you need anything," he agreed, watching as Stiles nodded uncomfortably and hurried from the room. He waited until well after dinner, until he was certain that Stiles was asleep upstairs, and then he retrieved the file from his office and the bottle of whiskey from the kitchen. The file went into the fireplace, all the official copies were filed at the department and he wasn't losing anything except his research from the past few weeks, and he held a match for nearly long enough to burn his fingertips before he tossed it in and watched the pages curl and turn to ash. He sat on the floor of the living room, the bottle of whiskey unopened in his lap, and it was morning before he forced himself to his feet once more.

*****

Stiles kept his distance for the next week or so, the house quiet and uneasy, and the handful of meals they shared were filled with forced bits and pieces of conversation surrounded by long gaps of silence. The first time he saw Scott and Stiles sitting in the living room, the coffee table covered in scraps of paper with lacrosse play diagrams and homework pushed to the edge, he relaxed just a little. Nothing had changed, even if everything had changed. Stiles and Scott were still Stiles and Scott, even when he caught Scott watching him for long moments, concern and something he couldn't name filling Scott's eyes.

It took him that week to get himself together and decide what needed to be done. Camden Lahey and Lahey senior were both dead, there was nothing he could do about them directly, but there were the children who had survived the abuse and their families. That was something he could do something about.

He tracked down Matt's parents first. They had separated following the death of their son and both had left Beacon Hills in opposite directions. He found Miranda Daehler first, living on the edge of Roseville with a sibling. When he explained about what had happened to Matt, she had covered her mouth with her hand for a long time before she said that she'd known something was off with Matt for years. He had thought back to Stiles, trying to see where that change might have taken place, but all those memories were saturated in his wife's sickness and death. Matt's father had been more difficult to find and the conversation even more difficult and terse when he finally found him. "Why are you telling me this?" was the only thing Eli Daehler asked, and then added, "I've already lost my son." The Sheriff drove back to Beacon Hills that evening deeply unsettled and he didn't wonder quite so much why Matt had thought his parents might not believe him if he'd told.

Two days later he met with Melissa McCall, aware that Scott had already told her about the abuse but he still wanted to touch base. In a lot of ways, after the death of his wife and Melissa's divorce, they'd been co-parents to both Stiles and Scott. He knew Stiles saw Melissa as the only mother figure he had left, and when Scott and Stiles were having trouble with being bullied in middle school Scott had gone to the Sheriff. Now that the boys were older he and Melissa had drifted a little, both busy with unrelenting work schedules, and he wondered if that had been a mistake. He arrived at Melissa's house during school hours and they both stood on the front porch for a long moment, and he wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders as soon as she stepped into his embrace.

They wound up at the kitchen table, coffee mugs clutched in their hands, and he listened while Melissa shakily recounted what Scott had told her. He added a few things, mostly what Stiles had told him regarding the swim team party where Matt had been drowned, and they sat in the quiet for a while. "I don't know what to do," Melissa finally said. "Between this and everything that's happened over the last year, it's like I don't even know my own son anymore. I asked him if there was anything else he hadn't told me, and the way he looked at me," she trailed off and shook her head.

A few weeks ago his advice would have been simple; be there for him, let him know you're willing to listen, trust your instincts. Now all he could do was reach across the table and set his hand over Melissa's. "I don't know," he admitted. He had never assumed that Stiles told him everything about his life, he was a teenager after all, but he had always thought that Stiles would come to him if he really needed help. With that illusion shattered he thought back to the early spring and how Stiles had grown cagey and distant, even before the the first murders Matt committed. "I don't know," he said again. He left with a joint promise that they would keep in touch and both keep an eye on their boys.

He didn't have to seek out Jackson's parents because that afternoon, while he was working on paperwork in his office at the Sheriff's Department, Mr. Whittemore stopped by to see him. The Sheriff stood and they shook hands, and he couldn't help but remember that the last time they had been standing here it was because Stiles and Scott had abducted Jackson.

"I just wanted to thank you for whatever you did that encouraged Jackson to tell us about what happened, regarding the situation with the Lahey's," Mr. Whittemore said, the tightness around his lips and the lines at the corners of his eyes the only outward indication that he wasn't talking about something else entirely.

"I didn't do anything," he said honestly. "I've only seen Jackson in passing these past few weeks. It was my understanding that the boys made a collective decision to disclose the abuse."

"Regardless," Mr. Whittemore said, his jaw visibly clenching and relaxing again. "It explains a lot of Jackson's behavior these past few years, and we're grateful to finally understand why."

If he was being honest he thought that Jackson had more issues than just the ones stemming from the abuse, but he brushed the thought from his mind and shook hands with Mr. Whittemore again. "If there's anything I can do here, please let me know."

There was a small amount of guilt that had been festering ever since he'd first felt relieved that there would never be a trial - he knew the conviction rates for sexual abuse far too well. Perhaps it was an opportunity for missed closure, but there were few things more final than a coffin buried in the ground. Then again, he strongly doubted Stiles and the others would have said anything at all if Camden Lahey had still been alive.

"Thank you," Mr. Whittemore said again, his eyes tired and sad when he met the Sheriff's gaze. He turned and left, the room echoing with his footsteps on the tile long after he was gone.

A few phone calls later he reached the voicemail of Isaac's case worker. The Sheriff had doubts that Isaac had disclosed anything of what had happened recently to whoever he was staying with, though he hadn't realized until then that he wasn't even sure if Isaac had been placed with a foster family or in a group home. He left a message and realized that he hadn't even seen Isaac once since the afternoon he'd asked him about what had happened at the party. It was right before he went off shift when Isaac's case worker called him back with the information that Derek Hale was Isaac's temporary guardian, and that Derek was currently seeking permanent custody.

He wasn't quite sure what to do with that information, not when his strongest memories of Derek Hale were of the night the Hale house had burned down and the day he'd arrested Derek on suspicion of killing Laura Hale. He didn't think that Derek was a bad guy, despite twice being falsely IDed as a murderer and then being a fugitive for a short period of time, but from the evening he spent questioning him, he would say that Derek wasn't necessarily equipped for parenting a traumatized teenager. Then again, Derek had once been a traumatized teenager himself, so maybe it wasn't as bad of a match as it originally seemed. He decided to reserve judgement and wait to seek out Derek until he had a chance to check in with Isaac regarding his living situation. He hadn't been able to help before, not when he hadn't known what was happening, but he wouldn't hesitate to step in now if he thought it was necessary.

His plan to wait and see was derailed early on Sunday morning. He had been spending more time at the Beacon Hills Cemetery lately, partially because the ache from missing his wife had resurged with a vengeance, but mostly because he found himself circling the six month old graves repeatedly. He always stopped by his wife first, tiding her headstone and occasionally placing flowers, and then he made the loop he now knew by heart. He started with the five swim team members, each buried near family members, pausing at each to read their names and the dates of birth and death. Beloved Daughter, Beautiful Child, In Loving Memory, and more were inscribed on the headstones, and he thought there had been far too many funerals of late. Next was his deputies, the four men and women who had given their lives in the line of duty. The station felt unbalanced without them, the new recruits still learning and trying to fill the places left behind. The Lahey plot came next, three graves; mother, father, and son. He didn't linger there, still not able to see the names without being flooded with helpless fury.

Last was Matt's grave, buried without any family members surrounding him, and he knelt down at the empty space. The epitaph on the headstone simply read 'At Rest', and he found himself hoping that was the case. When he finally stood he caught sight of a figure across the cemetery, a figure that had clearly already seen him but was hesitant about coming closer. The Sheriff walked across the distance and when he reached the figure he looked down to see whose grave they were visiting. Laura Hale, with the inscription 'Dearly Missed'.

"Derek," he said, noticing the deep sadness in Derek's eyes that went far beyond the tight frown of his mouth.

"Sheriff Stilinski," Derek said, nodding once and then stepping away from Laura's grave.

He fell into step with Derek and they walked slowly across the cemetery toward the exit. "I heard that you have temporary guardianship of Isaac. How is that going?" he asked, not missing the way Derek's shoulders stiffened.

"As well as can be expected, under the circumstances," Derek said, coming to a stop and staring across the cemetery at the tree line. "I should have realized sooner. It would have helped."

"We all would have liked to have been told sooner," he agreed grimly. "Can I ask what led you to apply for guardianship of Isaac?" he asked, still a little shocked that it had been granted in the first place. Derek didn't have any charges on his record, but there still should have been some red flags raised with the entire situation.

Derek's mouth tightened. "Isaac needed someone. It made sense for him to stay with me."

It didn't really answer his question, but he thought he saw something there that reassured him that the situation wasn't as strange as it seemed from the outside. He waited until Derek looked back his direction and nodded. "If you and Isaac need anything, I'd be happy to do what I can. Isaac's become pretty good friends with Scott and Stiles, and I think that's good for all of them."

Surprise softened Derek's face, his features suddenly a reflection of the man in his mid-twenties that he actually was. "Thank you," he said, bobbing his head once and then hesitating for a few seconds before he walked away with quick strides.

The Sheriff shook his head and left the cemetery, still left wondering why Derek had sought guardianship of Isaac, and why Isaac had agreed.

*****

A series of double shifts, trying to cover while half of his department was out with bouts of stomach flu and strep throat, left him waking groggily late one afternoon and he lay sprawled on his bed for long minutes while he tried to figure out what day it was and when he'd come home and gone to bed. He was getting too old for this. After reorienting himself, showering, and dressing, he went downstairs intending to first call Stiles since his cellphone had no missed calls or text messages, and then to call in something greasy for delivery. He stopped when he reached the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister when he heard Scott and Stiles talking in the living room.

"She keeps looking at me weird, like she did before she figured she was fine with everything," Scott said as the Sheriff stepped closer. He stood at the entryway, resting against the doorframe, and watched the tuft of hair that was Scott slump down further on the couch. "She keeps crying," Scott added.

"Dude, my dad cried," Stiles said both of his feet dangling over the arm of the couch while he was otherwise unseen.

Scott made a low noise in response. "My mom keeps talking about therapy. Jackson's parents are making him go, which, you know, would have been helpful like eight months ago before the whole lizard thing."

'Lizard thing?' the Sheriff mouthed to himself with arched eyebrows.

"Ha, I know. Why do you think Derek is making us all do the anger management stuff?" Stiles asked, his feet wiggling back and forth restlessly.

"I thought that was just Derek working out his issues on us?" Scott asked.

Stiles snorted. "That too, but mostly it's so he doesn't have to deal with a mauled therapist in the near future." Stiles paused, his feet slowing. "My dad hinted at it, though any day now when he has me off-guard he's just going to come out and say that he thinks I should be in therapy. After Ms. Morell though, I don't think so. I still can't believe she let us do all that and she knew the whole time. I mean, what the hell, right?"

"Right," Scott agreed. 

He frowned; Stiles was right about him preparing to suggest that Stiles consider starting therapy, though he'd been waiting for Stiles to arrive at the conclusion himself. They'd both gone into therapy for a period of time, trying to deal with Stiles' panic attacks, and he'd already checked to make sure the therapist was still in practice in Beacon Hills. He recognized Ms. Morell as the former high school guidance counselor, but he hadn't been aware there had been an issue there as well. He had known that she'd left the high school at the end of last school year and it seemed there was more to that story that he hadn't heard. This was why he was reduced to eavesdropping, he thought grimly to himself.

"Hey, have you talked to Isaac lately? He's been avoiding me after school, even when I just wanted to get a ride to Derek's," Scott said, moving around on the couch so that he was directly facing Stiles.

Stiles sat up, the back of his head appearing above the back of the couch. "Nah, he's been avoiding me too. I think he thinks our parents are going to blame him for all of this, now that they know."

The Sheriff exhaled silently, hating that Isaac even had reason to think that at all. In the near future he wanted to sit down with Isaac and make sure Isaac understood that none of this was his fault. Maybe he needed to call Derek and make sure that message was being delivered across the board.

"They wouldn't!" Scott exclaimed.

"I know," Stiles said quickly. "I tried to get him to come over yesterday so I could look over his lab report for chemistry, but he said he had to patrol with Derek and then took off, even though I know for a fact that's a lie because I helped Derek and Peter put together the patrol schedule. If Isaac doesn't start talking to us by next week I'm going to drag him over here for dinner and get it over with."

"How are you planning on doing that?" Scott asked, suddenly amused.

A small scuffle on the couch meant Stiles had probably kicked at Scott. "You, of course. You should stay for dinner too. Your mom is working tonight, right?"

"Yeah," Scott said, sitting up straight and very obviously catching a glimpse of where the Sheriff was standing.

He took a step closer, just in time for Stiles to say: "Well, it could have been worse. My dad could have found about all the werewolf stuff."

The Sheriff's eyes opened wide as he watched Scott's face contort with horror. "Dude!" Scott shouted, making frantic motions.

"What?" Stiles yelled back, jolting at Scott's sudden reaction.

"Werewolf stuff?" the Sheriff repeated, unsurprised when Stiles fell off the couch in response.

Stiles stared up at him and pasted on a smile. "Yeah, you know, werewolf movies and all of that. Werewolves are big right now, dad. Really big. Like vampires, but better."

He looked from Stiles' fake-bright smile to Scott's nervous shuffling and the way Scott ducked his head instead of meeting his eyes. "Werewolf stuff," he said again and stepped over Stiles to get to the armchair. He leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, and watched and waited.

Stiles picked himself up from the floor with a helping hand from Scott and they both looked at each other for a long time. "Your call," Stiles said, his eyebrows quirking up at Scott.

Scott shrugged. "If you want, but you get to tell Derek later."

Stiles tipped his head back and forth as he considered it. "Deal. But you're Exhibit A."

They turned in unison and Stiles gave him a smile that wasn't quite as fake as the first one. "So, werewolves. Dad, you might want to brace yourself. Scott, you're up."

A half hour later he stopped them with a wave of his hand and shakily got to his feet. "Let's continue this after dinner," he said, blinking his eyes at Scott and still only seeing normal-human Scott sitting on the living room couch when before the Scott sitting there hadn't been normal-human at all. He turned to Stiles and gave him as serious a look as he could muster. "Unless there is anything else important I should know. Anything else."

Stiles shrugged and looked a little abashed. "I think my jeep needs a new battery."

"Great," he said and walked from the room. He made it into his home office and sat with the phone in his hands as he tried to process the task of calling for delivery and the fact that werewolves were very real and there was one sitting in the living room and it just happened to be Stiles' best friend. Given the revelations he'd faced in the past two weeks, somehow werewolves didn't seem so bad.


End file.
